


Dulling

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Dwalin feels his years.





	Dulling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissManiac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissManiac/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for MissManiac’s “"17. Rust" with Thorin/Dwalin (long) established relationship: Dwalin is cleaning his weapons (I was going to say 'blades', but knowing him, it could very well be a hammer or an axe...) and reminiscing when Thorin catches him brooding and distracts him with kisses and/or sparring which leads to sexy times to prove they're not that old yet.” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

All of his weapons of old have gone to rust, even the ones made by the best smiths Erebor ever had—they saw more blood than they were ever meant to. His hammer he clings to most, the long, heavy one nearly as tall as him, the one that Balin gifted to him when he was still too young to swing it properly. He cleans it when he can, though his duties now take up so much of his time, but it seems the ware and tear of the years just can’t be stopped. He used to take it down to the forges, using the best tools Erebor could offer. But now he’s too _old_ to bother walking down, so he sits in an alcove of his quarters and runs a damp rag along the end. He can’t read the bottle anymore that the cleaning substance came in, but he got that from Ori, and he trusts Ori’s young eyes. Bit by bit, the grey gleams bright again through the brown. 

When he hears boots drudging in down the hall, Dwalin doesn’t even bother looking up—he’s lost now, wandering through memories of old, when he would clutch this hammer in whitening knuckles and roar battle cries to make the mountains quake. He remembers standing firm by Thorin’s side, knocking orcs and wargs away like brittle parchment. And he remembers catching glimpses of himself in the shine of Thorin’s sword, still smooth and without wrinkles. He was all muscle, all taut, tall and full of boundless energy. He could fight for days. And he would, rallying to Thorin’s call. 

Thorin finally wanders into their bedchambers, stripped of all his armour but still looking very much a _king_. Dwalin remembers _Prince Thorin_ , as sharp and flawless as the edges of their blades.

Now Thorin’s still _beautiful_ , just a little differently. There are lines around the corners of his eyes that crinkle when he grins, teasing Dwalin, “Are you brooding again?”

He doesn’t do that _every_ time he polishes his weapons. With a wry grin, Dwalin mutters, “No. Just... reminiscing.” Thorin nods, and Dwalin sighs his fear: “We’re getting _old_.”

Thorin snorts, the way he’s laughed at death and a dragon, still as fierce as Dwalin used to be. He walks closer in a royal march, as though defying Dwalin’s observation. Then he’s bending down to press a kiss into Dwalin’s cheek, and he murmurs into Dwalin’s ear, “We’re still spry in some things.” Dwalin lifts a bushy brow and stills his hands. This is another thing that takes time away from the care of his beloved hammer. Thorin hisses, “I think I can prove to you that we’re not so old yet.”

For the one thing Dwalin loves more than his home and his hammer, Dwalin gives in to try.


End file.
